


Clean

by mizdiz



Series: Going Down [4]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: But also, Character Study, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, kind of both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: "It's weird how loud the quiet gets in the dark. It's not like they were making a lot of noise before, but in the dark all the small sounds are amplified, like the loss of sight immediately morphs into enhanced hearing without a second thought. Outside, the wind is whistling a hollow tune, and upstairs someone is rustling around, making the floorboards creak. Suddenly, even though she couldn't before, Carol can hear every inhale and exhale of Daryl's breath. It feels intimate. That’s strange, isn’t it? They’ve got the expanse of a whole room separating them, so why does she suddenly feel hyper-aware of his presence?She thinks it has to do with being clean."season 2/3 interlude
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Series: Going Down [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1171979
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	Clean

It's the first nice house they've found in weeks, and it doesn't even take long to clear it. A cul de sac with a tall fence and a backyard that slopes down into a clear spring, offering up the unfamiliar feeling of hope that they've all forgotten how to feel with each night getting colder than the last. 

It also offers up the first opportunity for a real washing. Not a quick scrub down with a wet washcloth, or a pitiful excuse for a shower when it rains—this little pond is free of walkers, and the hill gives a semblance of privacy they haven't gotten in...shit, how long have they been on the road? Carol has gotten to know her friends' bodies—with all their disgusting sounds, smells, and weird moles—more intimately than she has with any past lover, and as much as she may love these people like family, she wants one goddamn day where she is free to wash and be really and truly clean without having to look at another person's ass.

It's not real privacy, of course. They go in pairs—one person bathes, naked and vulnerable, while the other keeps watch for anything that might want to tear them apart. What a way to go, that would be. Ripped to shreds while scrubbing the body odor from your pits. Carol will sacrifice true solitude for the sake of her dignity.

Carol teams up with Lori. She tells her friend that she'll bathe first, because she's not about to make a pregnant woman shiver with wet hair in the brisk air, waiting to be free from watch to escape to the warmth of the fireplace inside. Carol can handle a little cold. Her womb is empty, with only the memory of the dead daughter that used to inhabit it, so she can make the sacrifice. Her body is not responsible for nurturing anyone but itself.

The water is more than a little cold, though, and she gasps when she dips her toes in. Carol had a friend in grade school whom she used to go swimming with at the lake, and her friend always insisted it was better to go in all at once than to take it inch-by-inch, but Carol was never convinced.

She decides to try that method now, to save time, and in memoriam of her lost childhood days. Naked as the day she was born, she dunks herself down into the spring, her whole head below the surface, and for a second the breath is sucked from her. The biting cold renders her helpless, her chest and lungs aching. She breaks back through, the breeze highlighting every drop of water on her skin with a sharp chill, as she reminds herself how to inhale.

But it doesn't take long to adjust. After the initial shock, her body quickly adapts to the temperature around her, and although her teeth may be chattering, she's still able to grab the bar of soap sitting at the edge of the pond in a bit of mud, and begins rubbing it over her filthy body.

She gets the crooks and crannies. The suds reach the dried sweat under her breasts, the blood under her fingernails, the dirt crusted on the soles of her feet, the grease in her short grey hair. Carol glances up to see Lori politely sitting on a stump with her back towards her, and Carol runs soapy fingers in between the V of her legs, through the fine curls she hasn't had the time or resources to shave.

By the time she steps out and wipes herself down with a towel her whole body is numb, but she couldn't care less, because she's  _ clean _ . For the first time in a long time she doesn't just feel like a person trying to survive—she feels like a woman.

She slips the cleanest clothes she has over her fresh skin, and lets Lori have her turn. Facing away the same way her friend did for her, her mouth quirks up when she hears Lori swear when her body hits the freezing water.

It's worth it. 

It's a small luxury to make them all human again.

*

The sleeping arrangements are more complicated than usual. It's been a minute since they've had more space than people, having to cram nearly on top of one another in tiny sheds and barns, but this house is big. It's big enough for a large family, and probably housed one at one point. Carol doesn't want to think about that. They took down one walker in the kitchen, but the travel pack on her back suggested she was a wanderer like them. Whoever used to live here is gone, and Carol refuses to dwell on them long enough to even send out well wishes for their survival.

Despite the excess space, everyone gravitates towards one another anyway, gathering in the living room in silent agreement, as if even a single wall dividing them will spell out instant demise, but Carol isn't as desperate for the other's closeness. She loves her little found family, but she only derives so much safety from their nearness. There's only one person among them whose company makes her feel truly protected, and she watches him escape down the basement stairs when he thinks no one is looking.

No one will say anything about Daryl's absence, of course. The man prefers his solitude and he's been without it for some time, and it's expected that he'd dip when the opportunity arose. Carol doesn't fault him, but a naked-in-a-pond sort of vulnerability washes over her without him in her sight. She debates for several seconds, before slipping away and following his path down the stairs.

She takes each step hesitantly, bracing herself for the embarrassment she'll feel when he turns her away, but she wants to try. Has to try, more like, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't burning with curiosity to see if she's something he considers worthy of letting into his precious, limited space.

The room is lit by a single lantern he has sitting beside him on the floor. The basement looks like it had been in the midst of renovation when the world decided to end. There's no furniture, and only half of the room has been painted an ugly mustard yellow, the rest of it a dirty off-white. The only saving grace is the plush carpet, a bit water-stained along the edges where rain has leaked through the cracks, but thick and cozy all the same. 

With her back pressed against the wall, the palms of her hands pressed into the dusty cinder blocks, she watches him shake out his sleeping bag and toss a flat, misshapen pillow at the top. Without saying a word he turns his head and looks at her expectantly, awaiting whatever question she came down here to ask.

"You need anything else?" she asks him, testing the waters to see just how low his social meter has gone. When it's at its bottom dregs he gets snappy and short with everyone, and if he responds like that she'll know there's no chance.

He shrugs.

"'m good," he says, quiet but not unkind. He knits his brows together and regards her up and down. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Carol says, optimistic by his concern. "If I'm being honest I already figured you were fine. I just needed a break for a minute." She gestures her head up to where the footsteps of their friends creak above them. When Daryl says nothing, she adds quickly, "I'll get out of your hair. I know you need a break from us more than I do."

Daryl chews on his bottom lip and shrugs again.

"Stay down here if you're feelin' claustrophobic," he says, lifting his crossbow off his back and rotating his arm a couple times to work the stiffness out of his shoulder joint.

"You sure?" She tries to hide her surprise at being offered what she'd been working up the nerve to ask for. "I don't want to suffocate you." She doesn't mean just right now. Surely he's begun to notice how she clings to him like glue whenever he's not out hunting.

"You won't," he says. He squints at her as if he can't figure out why she would think otherwise. "Plenty of space. I don't mind. Just didn't wanna hafta sleep on top of everyone again, but I ain't gonna hog a whole-ass basement for myself. You know there's plenty of rooms you can take if you want, though? Ain't no one usin' 'em and they got real beds an' shit."

"Why aren't you using them?" 

"Dunno," Daryl says, offering up yet another shrug. "Feels weird. So used to the ground I dunno if I could sleep on a bed."

Carol suspects the opposite is true. He  _ can _ sleep on a bed, and that's what worries him—he fears being lulled into a false sense of security and missing a threat as a result, putting everyone at risk. The discomfort of the hard ground keeps his sleep light, making him always just a little bit alert.

Carol's back, knotted up like a coil, craves the comfort of a soft mattress, but she has her own reservations. Part of it is a stupid sense of pride, as if everyone else choosing the floor means she's weak if she doesn't too, but mostly she doesn't want to be alone. Or rather, she doesn't want to be that far away from the safety of  _ him _ .

"I don't remember what beds feel like. I'd rather not remind myself and then have to give it up in a day or two when we're forced to move on again," she says. Daryl nods like he finds that explanation sensible enough. He makes a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating all the open space around him in the partially finished basement, and she accepts the invitation by holding up a finger and going up the stairs, much faster than when she descended them.

She gets a couple furrowed brows tossed her way when she gathers up her bag and bedroll, but no one says anything when she leaves the rest of them, making a beeline back to the basement. Maybe they aren't as surprised as she thinks they are. Maybe they've seen her and Daryl together so often that it's not a huge stretch that they'd be sleeping together. Literally sleeping, of course, she thinks to herself, willing her blush away before facing Daryl again.

He doesn't say anything when she reappears, but neither does he look like he's regretting asking her to join him. In fact, he pays her no mind at all, his attention fixed on the task of arranging his weapons around him. Crossbow goes above his head, knife on his right side, and gun on his left, so he's armed at every direction say for his feet, but, Carol figures, he could probably give any threat a solid kick with his strong legs if it came down to it.

Carol unhooks her own knife from her belt, and tries not to feel foolish with only one weapon on her person. He's been giving her shooting lessons whenever they have a rare bit of free time, but she's still not quite ready to carry on her own. With her luck, she'd end up shooting her own ass before getting a chance to even aim at a walker. She said that to Daryl a week or so ago, and he'd gotten irritated and snapped at her, telling her to stop acting like she's not a quick study and good at the stuff she puts her mind to, lest she get herself killed with all that dumbass self-doubt, and she's still trying to figure out if that was meant to be a compliment or not.

Carol sets up her sleeping space on the opposite side of the room from Daryl, even though she'd rather lie down right beside him. They've slept close together before. Whenever the group has to stuff themselves inside somewhere tight, Daryl tends to gravitate towards her, and she thinks it's because she's the only one he trusts not only to respect his boundaries, but to not question them, even when she sees him flinch or curl in on himself when everyone shuffles around him, bumping and touching him carelessly. But they aren't somewhere tight right now, and Carol feels privileged to have that trust, so she's not about to jeopardize it by getting in his bubble when there's nothing to warrant it.

"You good?" Daryl asks a few minutes later, after she's gotten herself situated in her sleeping bag. She glances over and sees he has his hand on the off switch of the lantern, waiting for her go-ahead.

"Yeah," she says. "Goodnight. Thanks for letting me stay down here with you.".

"Mhm," Daryl mutters, like it's truly not a hardship. "Night," he says, and he clicks off the light.

It's weird how loud the quiet gets in the dark. It's not like they were making a lot of noise before, but in the dark all the small sounds are amplified, like the loss of sight immediately morphs into enhanced hearing without a second thought. Outside, the wind is whistling a hollow tune, and upstairs someone is rustling around, making the floorboards creak. Suddenly, even though she couldn't before, Carol can hear every inhale and exhale of Daryl's breath. It feels intimate. That’s strange, isn’t it? They’ve got the expanse of a whole room separating them, so why does she suddenly feel hyper-aware of his presence? 

She thinks it has to do with being clean. 

Her skin, although a little more freckled and a little more calloused than it used to be, is fresh again, and it’s making her feel some type of way. Like she’s not just a body she’s trying her best to keep functioning, but a whole person. A woman. She feels like a woman. They’re all too skinny nowadays, but she still has curves. She’s still got that nice collarbone she’s always been proud of, and her ass and legs certainly aren’t hurting from all the running and working she’s been doing. 

It’s not that she thinks she’s pretty, exactly. Ed did a number on her head that she’s sure she’ll be trying to unfurl for a good long while, if not forever, but there’s something about rediscovering her femininity that makes her remember that her body can be used for pleasure and not just as a means of getting her from one place to another.

And being alone with Daryl in this dank basement? It’s not helping matters. She’s attracted to him. Of course she is. She’s stopped trying to deny it, and has instead resigned herself to keeping it her own dirty little secret that she has no intention of burdening him with, but he’s right there, just across the room from her, and she’s  _ clean _ . She’s clean, and she’s a woman, and she can’t help her mind wandering to what it would feel like to have his hands running up the length of her freshly washed body. 

Heat pools between her legs—she can feel herself getting wet—and a wave of guilt washes over her. How uncomfortable Daryl would be if he knew she is over here thinking inappropriate thoughts about him after he graciously allowed her into his space? 

The desire to slip her hand down her pants and deal with it so she can turn the thoughts off and go on with her life is tempting. She knows how to be quiet as a mouse. But Daryl’s always so on alert that she wouldn’t past him to be able to hear the pitter-patter of a mouse, and she could never look him in the eye again if she thought he heard her pleasuring herself. 

No, she’ll just have to distract herself some other way. She tries to think of of unsexiest things she can come up with—rotting walker guts, the sound a skull makes when you drive a knife clear through it, having to hand wash stinky, bloody socks—but her mind keeps drifting back to things like the lingering smell of her perfumed bar soap, and how Daryl probably smells nice for once too, and when was the last time she saw  _ him  _ clean? Wouldn’t it be nice to take advantage of such a rare occurrence…?

“What’s the matter?” Daryl asks from his corner, and Carol startles.

“Hm?” she asks, blushing red in the dark, feeling like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re thinking real loud,” he says, and that’s just not fair. Daryl’s observant as hell, but even he can’t read minds. Right? 

“Just making a list in my head of what supplies we’ll need to look for tomorrow,” she says. Daryl snorts.

“Bad liar,” he says. “What’s really on your mind?”

She’s not a bad liar, actually, not with anyone else. But he’s caught her off-guard, plus she figures she’d probably have a hard time lying to him anyway, since he seems to be able to read minds. God, she hopes he can’t actually do that.

“I’m thinking about how nice it is to finally be clean,” she says, telling a half-truth. Daryl hums non-committedly, and Carol laughs.

“Feeling naked without your usual five layers of dirt and grime, Dixon?” she teases. He snorts.

“Nah,” he says after a beat. “Feels alright.”

“But?” 

“Dunno. It’s kinda like what you said ‘bout the beds. We get used to what it’s like out there, and then for a night or two we find someplace like this, and all it seems to do is make it that much harder when we gotta go back.”

“I get it. Like how you get used to swimming in cold water, but after you get out you know jumping back in would be as hard as the first time.” 

“Yeah, it’s kinda like that.”

“You’re better out there than the rest of us are, though.”

“I guess.”

He hasn’t recited any monologues by any means, but for Daryl this is mighty chatty, and Carol begins to suspect he’s not being entirely truthful either.

“You don’t like it here, do you?” she asks. Daryl doesn’t respond right away, giving her enough time to overthink the question and run it back through her mind a couple times to try and analyze it for anything that might have offended him.

“Can’t never sleep in places like this,” he says finally, voice quieter. Carol glances over his way even though she can hardly make anything but the vague shape of him as her eyes adjust to the dark.

“Oh?” she asks, leaving the statement wide enough open for him to decide if he wants to elaborate or not. His sleeping bag rustles, and she’s annoyed she can’t see his face to know if he’s moving around to get comfortable or because she’s making him nervous. The conversation is innocuous enough, but she’s never one hundred percent sure on what might be too invasive for Daryl, who is as private as the day is long.

“Don’t like when we stay in big ol’ houses like this,” he admits, sounding almost guilty, as though she might berate him for not being thankful for the brief reprieve from roughing it outside.

“Because there are too many rooms and floors to keep track of?” Carol guesses.

“Mm, kinda. Like, the forest’s big, right? But I know what all the sounds are. I can track, and listen, and know where everything’s comin’ from, so if there’s a threat nearby I can handle it, but bougie houses like this? They make all kinds o’ noises that don’t mean nothin’, so I’m up all night tryna figure out if that’s a walker tryna bust in, or if there’s just somethin’ rattlin’ around in all the fuckin’ pipes with all these fuckin’ bathrooms. You see that? There’s four bathrooms in this place. Why? Did the family that lived here make a habit of needin’ to take a shit all at the same time?”

Carol laughs.

“A family case of irritable bowel syndrome,” she says, making him laugh in return. “I never had a big house like this. Not as a kid or when I was grown. Ed spent most of the money on himself, and lord knows I wasn’t allowed to work. Doesn’t matter much in the scheme of things, anymore, I suppose, and I wouldn’t have known what to do with that much space anyway. Just three more bathrooms I’d have to clean.”

“Every place I ever lived in has been barely better than a trailer, ‘cept for that one year Merle snorted all our money and we actually  _ did _ live in a trailer. I never minded, though. Spent most of my time outside anyways. Like, I get that we need the shelter, ‘specially if it gets Lori outta the cold, but if it was just me? Psh, I’d take a shitty tent and a dip in a muddy creek any day.”

“Is that why you picked the basement instead of one of the bedrooms? Just one big room where you can hear everything going on upstairs?”

“Ah, yeah, that, and ‘cause when Rick and me was cleanin’ the upstairs we found…” He trails off, snorts, and says, “Nothin’, never mind.” 

“What, no,” Carol protests, propping herself up on one arm, facing Daryl’s direction. “Found what?” When he doesn’t answer she presses, “Daryl. Tell me. I wanna know.” 

“Chrissake,” she hears him mutter. “In the master bedroom, Rick and me found like...a metric fuckton of sex stuff.”

“Stuff?” Carol asks, delighted. “What kind of stuff?”

“Pfft, go look yourself if you’re so interested.”

“Why wake everyone up by trampling around upstairs when you can just tell me?”

“‘Cause it was bad enough havin’ to look Rick in the eye afterwards. I don’t need to relive it with you.”

“Oh, but there are so few joys in my life, Daryl,” Carol says. “Tell me, please?” 

“Oh fuck off with that. I can hear practically hear you battin’ your damn eyelashes at me.”

“I’m making big Bambi eyes, too.”

“Should shoot you and make venison stew, then.”

“Yeah, and who’s gonna make that when you’ve killed the best cook out of the group?”

“Mm, good point.”

“So what was in the bedroom?”

“Oh my god,” Daryl says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Fine, if it’ll get you to shut your mouth. They got this big-ass walk-in closet, right? And in the back there was some like, rubber suits. Or like, latex maybe? Is that what those are made of?”

“You mean you’ve never worn one?” Carol asks, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt.

“You wanna hear this or not?” Daryl deadpans.

“Yes yes, sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Anyways, there was them, and then a buncha like, ropes and handcuffs and—”

“Quick question?”

“What?” Daryl asks with a long-suffering sigh.

“Are we talking normal handcuffs, or more of the ‘pink-and-fuzzy’ variety?”

Daryl is silent for a moment, as though debating on how much ammo to give her.

“Second one,” he says finally, not acknowledging Carol’s delighted laugh.

“Go on,” she says. “We’ve got latex suits, rope, and fuzzy handcuffs. What else?” 

“Ugh,” Daryl says, voice muffled like he’s covering his face with his hands. “They had some weird shit that I don’t even know what it did but was definitely for the nether region. Looked more like torture devices to me. And there was a goddamn riding crop. And the bedside table was full of enough lube to fill that pond out back, and then I checked out the dresser, just tryna get the hell outta there as fast as possible, and found...Ain’t you tired yet? Should get some sleep.”

“What’d you find, Daryl?”

Daryl huffs out a tremendous sigh.

“So many dildos,” he says in a strained voice.

“Oh my god. How many are we talking? Like a whole drawer full?”

“No, I mean a whole goddamn  _ dresser _ full.”

“ _ Why? _ ” Carol asks, trying to keep her laughter muffled to keep from disturbing everyone upstairs. “Why would someone possibly need that many?”

“Don’t know. Don’t wanna know. Wanna just move on past.”

“That’s worse than four bathrooms.”

“Way worse.”

“Do you think we should scavenge any of the stuff to take with us?”

“Stop.”

“Did you scavenge anything for yourself?” 

“ _ Stop. _ ” 

Carol giggles some more, lying back down, when a thought hits her and she pops back up.

“Hey, wait a second, asshole,” she says. “You wouldn’t take the beds because who knows what they were doing on them, but you were gonna let  _ me _ sleep in them?”

“There’s more than one bedroom, they can’t have screwed around in all of ‘em,” Daryl says defensively. “‘Sides, it ain’t like the bed was covered in...it looked clean. I just didn’t feel like lyin’ there thinkin’ about two randos doin’ whatever freaky shit they was into.”

“Cum. Were you about to say ‘covered in cum’?” Carol asks.

“I changed my mind, go sleep upstairs,” Daryl says, voice muffled again.

“Sorry,” Carol says, not apologetic at all. “I’ll be nice. In all seriousness, though, we might wanna see if the nymphos had any condoms for Maggie and Glenn. One pregnancy is more than enough to deal with.”

“Yeah, well, they can go scavenge for themselves,” Daryl says flatly. “I ain’t diggin’ through no goddamn dildos just so those kids can keep camp up every goddamn night.”

“Oh let them have their fun. Small pleasures, you know?”

“Yeah, you’re right, pro’ly is small,” Daryl says, surprising a laugh out of her.

“Be nice,” she admonishes even as she giggles.

“Sorry, dunno where that came from,” he says, sounding embarrassed but also proud of having made a successful joke. “I don’t hardly know what I’m sayin’ right now, I’m tired as hell.”

“You should get some sleep.”

“Can’t,” Daryl says with a sigh. “Pro’ly won’t ‘til we find someplace else. Don’t you let my ramblin’ keep you up, though. I’ll let you be.”

“You’re fine,” Carol says. Exhaustion prickles at the corners of her eyes, but that’s nothing new. What  _ is _ new is Daryl speaking so freely and with so little inhibition—talking just because he’s tired and bored—and she’s more than willing to forgo sleep to hear that. “Isn’t there anything that helps you when you’ve got insomnia?”

“Nah, I just kinda wait it out. I ain’t gonna go droppin’ down in the middle of a walker fight or nothin’ tomorrow, don’t worry. I done more on less. If we stay another night maybe I’ll try and catch a nap when it’s daylight. Some reason I’m usually able to do that.” 

“I’ve had bad insomnia off-and-on my whole life. In the first couple years of my marriage, before Sophia was born, Ed would travel for work every now and then, and for some reason it’d get worse when he was gone. Isn’t that weird? It’s like by removing the threat my brain didn’t know what to do with itself. I could sleep when I was afraid, but not when I was safe.”

“Like how I sleep fine out in the open, but can’t even catch a wink if we’re hold up safe and sound in a house.” He huffs. “Brains don’t make no goddamn sense sometimes.”

“No, they really don’t.”

“Anythin’ help you?”

“Hm?”

“When you couldn’t sleep. Did anythin’ help?”

Suddenly, at the memory of her insomnia trick, all the inappropriate thoughts she’d had earlier come flooding back, this time punctuated with thoughts of Daryl talking about rifling through sex toys and lube. She clears her throat.

“Uh. There was something that worked a lot of the time, but I doubt you wanna hear about it.”

She can feel Daryl’s bemused stare trained on her in the dark.

“You snort crushed up Ambien or somethin’?” He’s clearly joking, but still Carol can’t decide if it’s endearing or depressing that his mind jumps to drugs before entertaining the thought of anything sexual.

“No,” she says. Daryl’s silence is expectant and she decides the hell with it. “Okay, but remember you asked. The only thing that ever worked—and mind you it wasn’t foolproof—was getting myself off. Usually took a couple times to do the trick.” With a flush, she remembers long nights with her vibrator, fantasizing about strong men with soft hearts touching her body. Even back then she was thinking about Daryl, but simply didn’t know his face yet.

Carol listens to Daryl inhale deeply and let it out in a resigned, elongated sigh.

“Kinda walked right into that one, huh?” he asks.

“A bit,” Carol agrees.

“Yeah, well...glad you found somethin’ that worked, I guess.” He sounds like he’s flustered and trying to hide it, and Carol probably let him off the hook, but they’ve gotten this far, and curiosity gets the best of her.

“You ever tried it?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. Hell, I think doctors would even suggest it. The owners of this house? I bet they slept like logs if the state of their bedroom is any indication.”

“Think I’ll stick with power naps, but thanks.”

“Well, at least now it’s something to think about trying when your insomnia gets bad,” Carol says with a tease. She’ll cut him a break now. If he wants to pursue this train of thought she’ll leave it up to him.

“Pfft,” is what Daryl says.

“What?” 

“Nothin’, just stupid. Like, yeah, lemme rub one out in a house full of people, and with you fifteen feet away.”

“Please, you gotta know everyone up there is sexually frustrated, except for Maggie and Glenn. Lori’s right about at that point of pregnancy where a stiff breeze could get her going, and I saw poor Carl trying to strategically hold a stack of firewood in front of himself when Beth’s shirt got all wet the other day.”

“...Was he really holdin’ wood?” Daryl asks, a smile in his voice in spite of himself.

“I know, right?”

“Whatever. So everyone’s tryna get their rocks off in between walker attacks. Don’t mean I’m gonna lie around with all’a y’all and take care of myself.”

“Who says you have to do it yourself?” Carol asks, and immediately wants to bash her head into the wall. What happened to letting him carry this thought train himself? She stays stock still, waiting for Daryl to say something.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, clearing his throat after a solid several seconds of awkward silence. “I ain’t never been known for my skill in chasin’ tail, and that’s when most of the women was still alive, so ‘less you find some girl with no standards, or wanna set me up with a walker who’s desperate and drunk at the local dive bar, I’d say I’m shit out of luck.”

Carol’s brain does somersaults trying to decide if that was a statement of pure self-deprecation, or a way of letting her down easy.

She really,  _ really _ should let this go, but this conversation is teetering on the edge of something she never expected to have an opportunity to talk to him about, not to mention, she’s still so goddamn  _ clean _ . 

“A woman doesn’t have to have low standards to find you attractive, Daryl,” she says softly.

“Mm.”

“I mean it.”

“Alright.”

“For example…” She swallows and chooses her next words carefully. “After everything I’ve gone through in relationships, I’d say it’s all made my standards sky high.” 

Her comment hangs in the air between them, and she lets him work out what she means by it. She can sense his mind running a mile a minute, just like he’d been able to do with her. 

“When you asked me earlier what I was thinking about I wasn’t totally honest,” she says to his silence. “I  _ was _ thinking about how nice it is to be clean, but that’s not all. I was also thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve felt anything good. Physically, I mean, ‘though I guess mentally too. Definitely before the outbreak. A long time before.”

Daryl remains quiet. She’d kill to be able to see his facial expression; is almost tempted to flip her flashlight on, but she’s pretty sure he’d react like a skittish deer and stare her down in terror. Best have this conversation in the dark where he can have some space to hide.

“I guess pregnant women and teenage boys aren’t the only ones feeling frustrated.”

Still nothing on Daryl’s end. She’s about to combust. She needs to know.

“Daryl,” she asks quietly. “How tired are you?”

His swallow is audible. Everything is so much louder in the dark.

“...Really damn tired.”

That’s about all Carol can handle. She untangles herself from her sleeping bag and walks over to Daryl’s corner of the room. Kneeling beside him and setting his knife to the side, she takes in his face for the first time since he turned off the light. He’s still cast in shadow, but her eyes have adjusted enough to make out the wariness in his stare, but there’s something coupled with it. It might be anticipation. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He’s sitting half-raised with the palms of his hands pressed into the ground behind him, and she can hear the slight stuttering of his breath.

“Tell me no and we don’t ever have to talk about this again,” she whispers, shy now that he’s so close. He chews on his lower lip, his eyes flickering down to hers. Carol waits patiently, needing him to verbalize his choice one way or another. They’re good at nonverbal communication, but this isn’t something she’s willing to simply infer. When it becomes clear that he’s going to have to speak, he takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Ain’t sayin’ no,” he whispers, so quiet she could have missed it if she wasn’t listening with the same intensity she employs whenever he lets her practice taking watch with him at night in the woods. Her heart thrums rapidly in her chest, and she wonders idly if he can hear the rushing of her blood in her veins with his own sharp ears.

Even with permission granted, she takes her time leaning into him, giving him ample time to change his mind. His body is stiff as a board, but he doesn’t pull back. In fact, unless she’s hallucinating it, he tilts his head the most miniscule amount right before her lips meet his.

It’s tense, he’s tense, and she smiles against his mouth. She runs a hand up his cheek and tangles her fingers in his hair, breaking the kiss long enough to whisper in his ear, “It’s just me, Daryl.”

When they come together again he starts to melt, relaxing into her touch, his lips becoming pliable against hers. She gives him time to acclimate—like waiting for your body to adjust to cold water—before she takes it up a notch, parting her lips and brushing her tongue along the seam of his. There’s only a split second of hesitation before he copies her movement, and their tongues slide over one another. 

Without breaking the kiss, Daryl sits up properly, one hand falling to her waist while the other cups the back of her head. Carol takes Daryl’s lower lip between her teeth and tugs on it gently, before letting it go and placing her mouth on the pulse point below his jaw. His heart is beating as rapidly as hers, and his skin smells just like she expected—clean. She sucks and licks her way down his neck, careful not to leave marks that would surely be group gossip for a week, minimum, meanwhile Daryl’s fingers dig into her side.

“Wait. Wait a second,” he mumbles, and she pulls away instantly, searching his eyes for any sign of discomfort.

“Too much?” she asks.

“No, not exactly, I just need...hell.” He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. Carol strokes his hair.

“You’re overwhelmed,” she says. “Do you want to stop?” He shakes his head, leaning into her touch. “Alright. Then what will help?”

“Just...here.”

He opens his eyes and puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing gently, and it takes her a minute to figure out he wants her to lie down. She lets him lay her on her back, surrounded by the earthy scent of his sleeping bag, and watches him curiously as he hovers above her on his knees. Monitoring her expression, his hands move to the waistband of her pants and pause there.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, not sure what he’s planning, but trusting him implicitly. She lifts her hips and helps him peel off her pants, taking her panties along with them, and a flush of self-consciousness hits her now that she’s exposed from the waist down. Even in the dark she knows Daryl can make out a lot of her. Old demons rear their heads, and she tenses. Daryl notices right away. Of course he does.

“Still okay?” he asks. She doesn’t know how to answer. This is everything she’s wanted for weeks, and also she’s terrified that, clean or not, he’s going to find her repulsive and turn her away.

“Yeah, I’m just…” She keeps her legs together and suppresses the urge to tug her shirt down as far as it will go.

“Hey.” He places a hand on her cheek in such a gentle gesture that she meets his eye even though it makes her more vulnerable. He gives her one good, purposeful expression before he says, “You’re real pretty.”

And, surprising herself, she believes him, because she knows that Daryl doesn’t say things just to say them, and she also knows how much a statement like that would take for Daryl to express. She may be exposed, but so is he, and that makes it level ground. A small smile forms on her face, and he mirrors it, hesitating just a moment before ducking down and giving her a quick, reassuring kiss on the lips.

Then his hand finds the inside of her thigh and her attention is taken elsewhere. He runs two fingers up her soft skin, and glances at her briefly before scooting back. He pushes up her shirt and kisses a line from her belly button down her pelvis, and then pauses.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, not moving from his precarious position. Carol tries not to gulp. No one she’s had sex with has ever enjoyed going down on her, but then, it feels like an insult to Daryl’s character to compare him to all those tools. Besides, he seems to genuinely  _ want _ to; pulled away from her kisses so he could get his face between her legs. It’s about focus and control, she realizes. It’s about not wanting to be the center of attention, and wanting to make her happy at the same time.

God, he is so good. Everything about him is unequivocally  _ good _ .

“Okay,” she breathes, still nervous but still trusting. Daryl kisses the soft part of her lower belly in response—another reassurance—before moving south.

She makes a strangled and involuntary sound the moment his mouth finds her. Her legs fall open like they’d been being held up by straw, and he settles in between them like he owns the place. The flat of his tongue makes several long, slow licks from her entrance to her most sensitive spot above it. Every part of her body responds to him; hardens and pulses. Her breasts tingle as her nipples grow erect, her abdominal muscles pull themselves taut, and underneath his intimate kisses her clit swells, searching for more contact. 

He gives it to her. He puckers his lips around the button of pure nerves and sucks tenderly, the very tips of his tongue brushing feather light against her in tiny circles. At the burst of sensation her pussy all but floods, dripping with the need to be penetrated, and maybe he really can read minds, because two of his thick fingers slip inside her with ease. The sleeping bag she’s lying on gets balled up in her clenched fists as she groans at the intensity of it all, and at the same time she aches for more.

“Shh,” he says gently, reminding her that they aren’t alone in the house, but it’s counterproductive, because his lips hum when he makes his command, deriving even more sensation from her overstimulated body.

He’s going to get her there. There’s no question about it, with the way he’s worshiping her, and she loves how she can know him intrinsically, and yet can still be surprised by him, because no one has made her cum before. That’s a responsibility that’s always fallen on her, but he  _ is _ always saying she carries too much of the workload around camp. Maybe it’s about time she delegated. 

Heat coils in her lower belly and she’s arching her back. She doesn’t even realize she’s making noise until Daryl’s free hand clamps over her mouth, all while continuing to suck on her, the tip of his tongue writing sweet-nothings on her clit, coaxing her entire body to the edge.

She bites his hand when she cums. Hard. Harder than she means to, but Daryl doesn’t miss a beat, not stopping for anything until the stars behind her eyes have faded and she finds her way back to Earth. Slipping his fingers out of her, he drops a couple sweet-as-sugar kisses against her center in their absence.

When he sits back up, Carol can make out her own wetness soaking the hair on his face. She nearly cums again when he licks his lips to get another taste. Briefly, he examines his hand that Carol dug her teeth into.

“Did I break the skin?” she asks, struggling to remember what words are. He nearly sucked and finger fucked the English right out of her head.

“Barely,” Daryl mutters, sounding like it’s the last thing on his mind. He lowers the hand and lets it fall to her bare knee. He regards her with a question in his eyes she knows he’s having trouble asking.

“How do you want me to do you?” she asks, a hint of pride swelling in her chest when she hears his breath hitch.

“You don’t gotta,” Daryl mumbles, shy and nervous, as though he didn’t just eat her out with more desparation than she’s ever seen him eat anything, even after he’s been literally starving.

“That would defeat the whole purpose of this experiment, wouldn’t it?” Carol asks, sitting up and finding his belt buckle. She doesn’t miss the way he draws his shoulders to his chin, even as he bulges against his restrictive pants.

She’s not naive. She’s seen the scars on his back, and the way the ghost of the little kid he once was flashes across his eyes whenever someone touches him wrong. He’s fragile as glass, and she wants to handle him with care.

Her hands don’t move from his belt, but she doesn’t undo it just yet. Instead, she leans in and puts her lips against his ear.

“Here’s my idea,” she whispers. “And you tell me what you think. Why don’t you fuck me? We don’t have to take off anything more than what we gotta. And you can use me to get off. See if it helps you sleep. What do you say?”

Daryl’s breath is ragged. She doesn’t dare look him in the eye lest it scare him away.

“Don’t got nothin’ for it,” he whispers.

“Bummer. You could always go rummage through the dildos again.” When he doesn’t answer right away she gets the distinct impression that he’s actually considering it, which is flattering. She puts him out of his misery. “I’m kidding. We don’t need anything. I have an IUD.”

“A what?”

“A nice something that means we can do whatever we want, worry free.”

Daryl’s fingers drum an arrhythmic beat on her bare kneecap.

“You sure?”

“That it’s safe?”

“That you want to. With me.”

In response, she takes him by the wrist and guides him to the heat of her vagina, where she’s still dripping like a faucet.

“You tell me,” she mutters in his ear, and that’s what tears it for Daryl. Without preamble, he turns his head and captures her lips in a crushing kiss that she responds to enthusiastically. 

His hands fall over top of hers on his belt buckle and she gets the hint. She relinquishes control back over to him, and lies back while he shoves his pants and boxers down to his ankles. She wants to see him so bad, but the need to keep him feeling safe in her company overrides the desire. Instead, she tangles her fingers in his hair again and massages his scalp. He pauses for just a second, appreciating the innocent touch, and she swears he nearly purrs like a cat.

Then, in a single swift movement, he’s over her, searching her face for hesitation at the same time she searches his.

“Okay?” she asks him. He nods, and she gives a warm smile. “Me too.”

He nods again, taking the encouragement, and looks down at where their pelvises meet, watching himself slide inside her and stilling, giving them both time to adjust to the temperature of the water.

The stretch is delicious. He’s big enough that she has to accommodate him, but nothing about this hurts. It is exclusively pleasure—something she’s never experienced during sex.

“Christ, Carol,” Daryl says under his breath. He seems nervous, and she wonders if he’s worried about going off too soon and disappointing her.

“This is already the best I’ve ever had,” she tells him to quell his unvoiced fears. She cups his cheek and kisses him softly. “I don’t give a damn how long or short it takes. I need you to to feel as good as I do.”

Daryl’s eyes flit to hers, uncertain, but she can see confidence swell inside him as he starts the slow, steady thrusting of his hips.

“Mm,” Carol hums, head falling back, limp against the sleeping bag. “Good. You feel so good.”

She isn’t usually one to talk during sex, but Daryl is shy, and she gets off on encouraging him. She whispers words and sounds of approval, and is rewarded with faster, deeper thrusts. Harder ones.

He surprises her by taking her into his arms, wrapping himself around her body, and panting her name against her neck with hot breath. She holds him right back, petting his hair, mindful of his back, and lets any worries or concerns go for the time being. For now, Daryl and his rhythm inside her is all there is. Him fucking her, the air around them perfumed with the smell of sex and soap, because the two of them are clean for once. They’re clean, and human, and able to enjoy this. They’ve earned some unabashed enjoyment after everything, haven’t they?

He’s trying so hard to hold back, she can tell, but she doesn’t want him to. She teases him, contracting her muscles around the length of him and whimpering filthy things to overpower whatever thoughts he’s using to keep from letting go.

Hot cum fills her as he hisses a couple colorful words. She hooks a leg around his waist, keeping him inside her, soaking up every drop until his very last aftershock. Only then, after he’s left empty and trembling, does she let him pull away. He presses a kiss to her forehead and rolls off of her.

Immediately she misses him, but she’s not about to say so.

Lying beside her, he stares at the ceiling, a hand on his heaving chest. Here in a minute he’s going to start feeling crowded by her closeness, and she wants to avoid making him have to ask her for space. Gathering up her clothes, she slips them back on. She reaches down and takes hold of Daryl’s hand for a moment—just long enough to give it a squeeze—before excusing herself back to her corner across the room.

Where do they go from here? She’s not gonna worry about it right now. Whatever path this turn in the road leads them down, she figures she’ll discover it one way or another, whether she spends her time agonizing over it or not. Besides, she’s certain Daryl will do plenty of agonizing for the both of them. For now, she’s just going to enjoy it for what it is. She’s going to relish the soreness in between her legs, and the wetness of her panties as his cum drips out of her, proving to her that what they just did was real. 

“Not as clean no more,” Daryl says into the darkness a couple minutes later. She grins.

“There are way worse ways to get dirty,” she says.

Daryl doesn’t speak again. After a short time, in the loud quiet of the dark, she hears the unmistakable sound of deep, even breaths. He’s fast asleep.

Curling up on her side in this weird little basement, she isn’t far behind. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back, praise the lord. i've been sick and unable to write. i wrote this as a kind of practice to see if i was really on the mend. my wips are next on the list. thnx for your continued patience. love y'all.
> 
> deuces,  
> -diz


End file.
